Chapter 28
Kamran and I stared in absolute shock at the wanton vandalism of the beautiful sign, now defaced with the ugly words.
And then Alessandro took charge, demanding a ladder.
‘You can’t let passers-by see this – getting wind of summat going on,’ he warned. ‘Not at all good for business.’
Once Kamran had hurried back down to the restaurant for the stepladder he’d used earlier, Alessandro folded his arms and turned back to me. ‘This Fabian bloke?’
‘Yes?’
‘Bad news, is he?’
‘Bad news? What d’you mean?’
‘Well, I know I’m early, but he doesn’t appear to be here to meet me as arranged. Not good for a start. I need to see who I’m going to be working with before I make the decision to up sticks and move over here. Big decision, love. And some bugger’s obviously got it in for him.’
‘How do you know it’s aimed at Fabian?’ I asked, folding my own arms.
‘Defending the Soho Slasher? I read the papers.’
‘Or aimed at the Sattars?’ I glanced at Alessandro. ‘Racist graffiti…?’ I paused. ‘The Sattar brothers are involved with knocking down a school in the next village to this one. Building a new factory on the site. They’re not popular in some eyes.’
‘Has owt else like this happened?’ Alessandro stared down at me, and I felt myself redden. Should I tell him about Fabian’s slashed tyres and the smashed window?
I was saved from speaking by a somewhat breathless Kamran arriving back with the ladder.
Alessandro immediately took over, taking the ladder in his big meaty paws and moving it deftly underneath the sign and then scaling the rungs with an alacrity one wouldn’t expect from a man of such height and bulk.
As Alessandro worked, Kamran indicated, with a shake of his head and hand gestures across his throat, that I should say nothing further about the other things that now appeared to be some sort of vendetta against Fabian.
Should I say anything to Robyn? The last thing I wanted was her to worry, but Fabian needed to know what had happened.
While he was still bearing the scars – literally – from the smashed window, it was pointless keeping this latest incident from him and, after Kamran and I had spent the next hour or so in discussion with Sandro and then waved him off back to Harrogate, Kamran had tried to ring Fabian.
But apparently to no avail. I tried myself, several times, but then gave up, knowing I needed to get back home to prepare for my coming date with Henry.
It wasn’t a date – of course it wasn’t! At the end of the day, I was just popping down to help a man who didn’t appear to have much clue about looking after an eleven-year-old.
And to make sure my own eleven-year-old wasn’t outstaying her welcome with her newfound friend.
At least by helping feed the pair of them, it was some sort of payback for Henry keeping an eye on Lola while I was at work.
Although, I couldn’t imagine it would actually be him doing any supervising of the girls.
This was what I kept telling myself anyway as I let myself back into the cottage later that afternoon, my head full of the sign with the still-wet red paint.
So no, the coming evening wasn’t a date.
Of course it wasn’t. And the batch of muffins I was immediately going to crack on with once I was through the door and back in my own kitchen was simply a thank you gift for the man down in Queen’s Gardens.
The Man in Queen’s Gardens? I gave a little titter as I let myself into the cottage.
For heaven’s sake, it sounded like Our Man in Havana.
I realised I was building up Henry Cavendish-Brown into some sort of superhero. Mind you, he was rather attractive.
The two cottages appeared deserted – no Joel back from his revision and rehearsal sessions down at St Mede’s – and, with Dean down at the garage until well after seven, next door appeared particularly quiet.
Arthur had already made his way through the open garden gate, settling down to sleep in the beautiful spring sunshine under Mum’s apple trees.
And yet I welcomed the quiet. There was no need to wonder if Mum was OK next door as I’d done for years, automatically popping over to check everything was all right, taking her and Sorrel a pie or casserole round in exchange for Mum having weeded my flowerbeds.
Strange, I suddenly welcomed the freedom – I was a single woman; a career woman with a new job, Mum was off and happy and hopefully Sorrel likewise.
But was my little sister happy? Settled?
I couldn’t bear the thought that she might be crying into her pillow at night, unbearably homesick as I knew I would be in her situation.
Missing me, Mum and Robyn. Missing Joel.
I contemplated ringing her, but it was the middle of the day and presumably she was at lessons like any ordinary school.
Just as I was thinking this, my phone started its usual refrain.
‘Goodness, just thinking about you,’ I said. ‘You must be psychic.’
‘Ten-minute break,’ Sorrel said, speaking hurriedly. ‘Tried to call Mum but no reply. Is she OK?’
‘She’ll be down at the gym,’ I said. ‘You know what she’s like now she’s found her niche down there. She’ll be trying to beat her PB in the pool… or even out for lunch with the SS.’
‘PB? The SS? Talk English.’ Sorrel tutted. ‘Come on, Jess, I’ve only a couple of minutes.’
I laughed. ‘Sattar sisters-in-law. I think she feels it her duty to schmooze with her new relatives-to-be, even though she’d rather be out in the garden. So, you OK, Sorrel?’ Please don’t say she was ringing me in the middle of the afternoon because she was homesick. I couldn’t bear that.
‘Yes, I am,’ she said, her voice brimming with an enthusiasm she appeared unable to contain.
‘I just wanted you all to know how good it is here. The girl in the room next to me is from Leeds, but the rest are mainly from the south. They’re not stuck-up southerners, though, you know,’ she added sagely as though surprised at finding anyone south of Nottingham to be no different from herself.
‘And we’ve been straight in with maths and English revision sessions all morning.
I understood everything in the lesson and actually Mr Thompson… ’
‘Mr Thompson?’
‘Maths teacher.’ She tutted once more, obviously desperate to get on with her story.
‘He said I had much maths ability. I said, I obviously hadn’t, but my big sister has.
And she’d helped me. And he said, did you want a job down here teaching maths?
And I said, no because you were a brilliant cook and you were about to open and run your own top Michelin-starred restaurant… ’
‘Woah, woah.’ I laughed. ‘Slow down!’
‘Oh, Jess, the dance sessions! I’m actually stiff as a board.
We were worked until we nearly dropped. In fact, one of the other new girls did drop.
Started crying. But I didn’t. It was all fantastic…
’ She trailed off. ‘I just wanted you to know I’m OK.
’ I think she was slightly embarrassed that she was so happy.
‘I know what you’re like. I didn’t want you worrying I was homesick. ’
‘I can hear you’re not.’ I laughed, delighted that she wasn’t ringing to say she wanted to come home, that she couldn’t cope with it all.
‘And Joel? Joel’s OK?’
‘He’s fine. Really. And he’s a lot tidier than you ever were.’
‘You will keep an eye on him, won’t you?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I just don’t want him slipping back; you know, being taken on again by the awful lot who’d got him delivering the stuff.’
‘He’s fine,’ I said once more. ‘And I’ve lent him Dean’s bike to get about on.’
‘Oh? Have you? Why?’ I was surprised to hear disapproval in Sorrel’s voice.
‘Why? Well, he asked. And he appears pretty competent on it. Better than Dean ever was.’
‘Well, he will be, won’t he?’
‘Will he?’
‘Look, when he was delivering before, it wasn’t for Deliveroo, you know.’
‘And?’
‘Well, he did all he shouldn’t have been doing on his bike. The police confiscated it as… you know…?’
‘No, I don’t know. What?’
Sorrel sighed audibly. ‘Jess, you’ve given him the ability to be working again. He can’t deliver the goods without a set of wheels.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Sorrel, Joel’s back at school working for his GCSEs like you are. Working hard for his part in Grease as was the deal with him coming here to stay.’
‘Where’s he getting his money from?’ she asked.
‘How d’you know he’s got any?’
‘Well, I don’t. I just worry. I didn’t, you know, worry, when he was away from it all over in Castleford with his aunt. And when I knew he was safe with you…’
‘He is safe with me,’ I said.
‘…especially knowing there are so few buses out to our place and it’s too far to walk into either the village or into town…’ Sorrel continued. ‘But you’ve now given him a way out.’
‘You’ve got to trust him, Sorrel,’ I said. ‘Give the lad a chance.’
‘S’pose. It’s just that he’s not been in touch really.’
‘I know. He told me.’
‘Cosy chats over mugs of Ovaltine before bed?’
I laughed at that. ‘Yes, actually. I know Joel thinks a lot of you, but he needs you to get on with your new life. Without any interference from him. And it’s nice to have him to chat to.
Now that Lola thinks she’s at least fourteen and in need of a bra, I’m suddenly the Wicked Witch of the West. No cosy chats there any more… ’
‘Get her one,’ Sorrel interrupted.
‘What? A mug of Ovaltine?’
‘A bra!’ Sorrel sniffed. ‘Nothing worse than bouncing around with an out-of-control bosom’ – (I was so glad she didn’t say boobs or, even worse, tits) – ‘when the boys are sniggering behind your back at school.’
‘She’s Year 6 for heaven’s sake,’ I protested.
‘Boys know what it’s all about at junior school, these days.’
‘It’s on my list of things to do,’ I said, slightly put out that I didn’t appear to be up to the mark as an actual mother as well as a foster mother.
‘The White House taking up all your time?’ Sorrel asked.